I had expected to miss England's opening game of Euro 2004, the game against France, which, as an Arsenal supporter, I had been relishing more than any other. Instead, I expected to be on an aircraft high above the Caribbean sea, if not lost in the Bermuda triangle, then on my way out to a little golfing jaunt in Barbados. In the event, strong winds, or so we were led to believe by the even-toned voice of the captain of our BA flight, were the cause of our arriving early and ahead of schedule at the dusty, half-built airport on the island that once took pride in the name of Little England. This meant, with luck, I would be at our hotel at least in time for the second half.

Ours was no ordinary hotel: it was Sandy Lane, no less, the gilded ghetto of the new plutocracy. Sandy Lane is owned by the Irish entrepreneurs Dermot Desmond and J P McManus and is located, directly on the sea, on Barbados's west coast, amid the designer eateries and the karaoke bars, the smart expatriate residences and the golf courses. The west coast of Barbados is an uneasy blend of extravagance and vulgarity: at times, as you enter a bar, and find yourself surrounded by loud-voiced, drink-unsteady, red-skinned Englishmen and women, it is as if you have been suddenly transposed to Southend-on-Sea on an unusually hot summer day; at other times, in the air-conditioned cool of Sandy Lane, in one of the spectacular cliff-side restaurants or out on the manicured golf courses of the Royal Westmoreland club or Sandy Lane's own thrillingly challenging Green Monkey course, you could be anywhere in the world where the rich and the famous retreat into burnished isolation.

Arriving at the hotel, I went straight to the crowded television room. A handsome, muscular black man was sitting at the bar, dressed in shorts and a white T-shirt. I asked him the score. 'One-nil to England,' he said. 'It's a good game.' I recognised the voice before I fully recognised the man. I looked again.

Yes, I was talking to the Blackburn and former England striker Andy Cole and with him, sitting on a stool at the bar, was Ryan Giggs. I moved past them, in search of a seat, and approached another group of young guys, who were clustered conspiratorially at the bar, less interested in the game, it seemed, than in bantering among themselves. As I approached they looked at me suspiciously, as if my presence was a truly unwelcome disturbance, and then I realised why: for prominent within this little group were the footballers Chris Sutton, Alan Thompson and Craig Bellamy, and no doubt they thought I wanted something from them. I did - but it wasn't an autograph, or a spare £50,000. I wanted to know the scorer of England's goal.

I moved on, finding a seat close to the widescreen television. To my left three sun-burned men, in T-shirts and shorts, were sitting together on a stiff-backed sofa. I recognised these three men. They were Alan Shearer, Rob Lee and Shay Given. More footballers. The room was full of footballers watching football. It was as if I had entered the sporting equivalent of Madame Tussaud's and the dummies around me were not made of wax but of flesh and blood. And they talked, and they walked. And they drank lager, but only in modest half-pint glasses.

Yet the atmosphere in the room was remarkably sedate: we could have been watching a routine Uefa Cup tie, between anonymous continental teams, so hushed was the occasion. No one behaved badly. No one swore. No one draped himself in the flag of St George. Shearer even took notes, like the coach manqué that he is. There was a little laughter, from Shearer and Lee, when something was whispered to them by Given shortly after Beckham had missed his penalty. And there were loud cheers, from the Bajan drinks waiters, when Zidane scored his winning penalty. It was interesting to watch Shearer at the moment of England's dramatic capitulation: he slumped dejected in his chair, a familiar look of wounded indignation on his face.

Soon afterwards, however, he was back out on the beach, playing football with his children, and with Lee and Bellamy. 'Go on, do the arm,' he said to his son, whenever the boy struck the small white ball with accuracy and power. Shearer would then raise his arm in mock celebration, in a style that has irritated opposing fans for more than a decade now. Meanwhile, Andy Cole, seemingly ignored by Shearer and his entourage, sprinted up and down the beach, as if auditioning for a part in a remake of Chariots of Fire, and Giggs sat alone, in black T-shirt and shorts, moodily listening to his iPod.

One afternoon, the sandy lane beach was invaded by a group of over-fragrant English women. They, like me, had not expected to find themselves in the company of so many footballers - by this time, Trevor Sinclair had arrived with his family. They were excited and exuberant. Their breasts bulged and their eyes flashed. And when they saw Giggs, in his trunks, they could no longer restrain themselves. They surged towards him, shrieking his name. This was too much for the Welsh winger; he sprinted out into the warm sea, dived beneath the waves and swam out to an isolated pontoon, where he then proceeded to stay until the danger had passed. He had learned a painful truth: Et ego in Arcadia vixi. Or, in rough translation: there was a serpent even in the Garden of Eden.